A Touch Maudlin
by Lil' Amethyst Angel
Summary: A series of interconnected one-shots that follow the lives of two people disillusioned with the world- Greg Sanders and Ellie Brass.
1. Just Another Day

Part 1: Just Another Day

Greg Sanders likes his job. He's a CSI and has fought tooth and nail to gain the title; he has absolutely no intention of letting it go. He works hard, harder than before. After all, now he has something to prove. Before, when he was a lab tech, he hadn't needed to. He was the best of the best and they all knew it. They still know it, but now it doesn't mean anything. Now he's someone else and what he was before doesn't matter. He feels like he's back in high school, wanting to sit at the cool kids' table. And, sure, there was a pay cut. Even so, it's still worth it. Greg Sanders likes his job, and he reminds himself of this as he walks past the weeping woman, under the yellow tape, and over to the blood-covered form of that woman's child.

He's halfway through collecting blood samples from a nearby tree trunk, desperately trying to drown out the sounds of the mother's cries, when a lullaby his grandmother used to sing to him begins to play in his head. _Hush, little baby_…And it's the most bizarre thing. Greg ignores the echoed whispers in his head and continues bagging the now bloody swabs. Sometimes, Greg thinks he might me losing it. He really hopes he's not.

* * *

Greg sits in a gray, uncomfortable chair in the break room, drinking a cup of coffee and waiting on lab results. He's allowed a few moments of solitude before Catherine wanders in, grabbing a cup for herself. 

"Hey, Greg. How's it going?"

"Not too bad. Just waiting for results on some blood samples. What about you?" Greg idly swirls his coffee around. Did he put sugar in this? He can't remember. He doesn't like sugar in his coffee.

"Just finished up a case. It was a pretty open and shut assault case." Greg nods. He's pretty sure he didn't put in any sugar. "You been getting enough sleep lately, Greg?" Greg looks up from his coffee.

"Yeah. Why?"

Catherine gestures underneath her eyes. "I've just noticed you've had those growing bags under you eyes. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. Well, maybe I haven't been getting as much sleep as I should, but I've just been pulling more overtime." Nothing is wrong. He just doesn't like to sleep anymore. It isn't a problem, not really. He has his beloved coffee and it's not like he avoids sleeping _all_ the time. He just has these dreams sometimes. He really hates dreaming and he especially hates the fact that he always seems to remember his dreams. His sleep patterns are just another thing that have changed when he took on this new, wonderful job of being a CSI. It is just another change, that's all.

Still, he can't help but wish those dreams ('_nightmares'_, a distant voice corrects) would stop. Unluckily for him, they are rather persistent and show no signs of fading away any time soon. Greg accepts this with a grain of salt. He can deal with it. He _is_ dealing with it. He's dealing with the fear and worst case scenarios and ruby red puddles that seem to litter his dreams of late. It can be hard, he admits to himself, particularly when they're too vivid, too true. When dreams imitate reality the line between what's real and what's not becomes blurred. But, sometimes, he likes to change the rules and twist the confusion to his whim. So, when he awakes from rivers of blood, he makes sure reality imitates dreams.

Often, when he's sitting in bed, temporary hysteria taking hold of his sleep-deprived self, he thinks those stupid dreams are some kind of manifestation of bad karma or cruel joke by a Higher Power with nothing else to do. The weary CSI usually shakes off such notions, reminding himself he doesn't believe in karma or higher powers. His family has never been religious, and besides a short stint in university where he explored the wonders of Buddhism, he has not been either. Greg is a scientist; he needs proof and facts and the tangible. Despite this, the young scientist thinks he could really use some kind of faith to fall back on now.

His clothes, those have changed too. He wears dress pants and long-sleeved, buttoned-up shirts now. Archie teases him about his sudden change in dress and Sara tells him it's great that he's really taking his job seriously (even if she does miss the spiked hair, though she won't ever admit it). He doesn't like the shirts, they're confining and the sleeves chafe when they rub up against his arms at times, but he needs them now.

Greg tugs at his shirt sleeve absentmindedly until Catherine interrupts his thoughts. "Alright. Try not to work too hard, huh?" Catherine says as she sweeps out of the room, leaving Greg to pull at his shirt cuffs and wonder at the contents of his coffee cup.

* * *

Sofia sits across from The Mother (_that's her role in this case_, Greg thinks, _as the mother, not the wife or the sister or the daughter_) and listens to her stutter through what she remembers from That Day (as it is often titled by the victims).

Went to the park. Just turned away for a minute. Disappeared. Searched. Couldn't find. Gone, gone, gone.

Sofia is nodding and looking sympathetic. Greg tries to focus on the words, but his eyes are drawn away from the miserable woman. There is a piano in the corner of the room- a baby grand, black and shiny.

_I am slowly going crazy. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Switch. (Fingers trailing up the keys. Switch to left hand now.)_

Greg took piano lessons for three months when he was nine. He quit because he got bored. He doesn't remember much of what he did learn in those three months all those years ago. He remembers a few scales, a few chords. He can read notes.

_Slowly going crazy am I. 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Switch. (Fingers trailing down the keys. Back to right hand.) _

There's a picture on top of the piano. A little girl, The Victim, is sitting on the piano bench, fingers resting over the keys, head thrown over her shoulder to smile for the camera. She had a pretty smile.

* * *

The Strip is different during the day. The hulking casinos and hotels loom more and some type of charm seems to be lacking. Greg has always considered Las Vegas to be a city that comes alive at night. Committing indiscretions in the light of day seem worse somehow. When it's dark, no one seems to care and everyone is up for anything.

Nights when he's not at work and should be sleeping, he finds himself walking along this road paved with fool's gold. It's a gorgeous sight, The Strip lit up and seductive as it can never be during the day. Greg loves those nights- when he's strung out on caffeine and night air, sucking in the life that surrounds him.

Greg is a California boy through and through, but Vegas has something special; Vegas is in a league of its own. Greg loves Las Vegas. It's all flash and bang and baby, baby, baby. There are bright lights and dollar signs and good times. He loves Las Vegas, except for when he hates it.

Greg finds himself staring at the people he catches glimpses of as he passes them in his car. He drives down the street and sees a man sitting in the gutter. He probably just lost all his money or maybe his wife. Desperate people do desperate things. Greg can see himself standing over that man's body; COD is self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. There are a group of kids (they're probably in their twenties, but really, they're just kids) laughing and talking outside of a casino. All Greg can see is their dead eyes staring up at him from a mess of mangled limbs and metal, after one of them decides he/she isn't too drunk to drive them all home.

He feels his pager vibrate and looks down at the number as he comes to a stop. It's from Sara; they must have a suspect. Greg signals and turns off the road, heading back to the lab. He was supposed to have grabbed dinner.

"Oh well, duty calls." the young CSI murmurs.

He really hopes The Suspect is The Murderer. He's almost maxed out on overtime and he wants to close up this case.

* * *

Greg stands behind the two-way mirror, watching Sara and Sofia interview The Suspect.

The Suspect is a man with thin, blonde hair and lines of age on his face. They have objective evidence to hold against him- his hairs were found in The Victim's wounds. They even have the subjective evidence- a witness that places him at the scene of the crime, another that saw him lead her away. His alibi fell through.

'_He should ask for a lawyer'_, Greg thinks. It is, after all, the intelligent thing to do. Don't these people ever watch crime shows? He watches the happenings of the interrogation room unfold. It is like a play or book of some sort-

Opening Scene: The Suspect is read his rights.

Rising Action: Accusations are thrown at The Suspect.

Climax: A confession bursts forth in a rage of emotion, sprinkled with anger and guilt.

Falling Action: The Suspect realizes what he has just done; tears and apologies follow.

End Scene (Catastrophe): The Suspect- now The Murderer- is led from the room in handcuffs and off to his Not-So-Happily Ever After.

Greg watches with bored eyes. He has seen this play before, has read this book many times over.

Greg steps out of the little room and back into the bustling hallways. The Murderer's wife and son sit a few meters away, waiting anxiously to find out what is happening. The Murderer had been arrested while sitting down to dinner with his family. The former lab tech was sure it must have been a lovely dinner too (they seem like the type). The boy is fidgeting in his seat, wondering why his daddy is taking so long, while the wife wrings her jacket with shaky hands, wondering when the mistake will be cleared (because it _must_ be a mistake). Greg doesn't like this, this _knowing_. He doesn't like to put names on the faces. He doesn't like to know that The Murderer has a family who will cry over him. He doesn't like to know that The Victim was only seven, loved to play the piano, and had such a sweet smile.

As much as he hates to know and has tried not knowing, he can't stop. He needs to know. A CSI needs to know. A CSI needs to know the victim to make connections, form hypotheses, and find the clues. A CSI needs to know the accused, so they can match up those connections, hypotheses, and clues. Greg hadn't realized that before; he hadn't realized that he needed to know. He wonders, sometimes, if he had realized this when he was making his decision to leave the comfort of his lab for this glorious new career, would he have still chosen what he did? He never ponders the question for too long, though. Greg doesn't like to waste time on 'what if's and regrets, just as he doesn't like to waste tears on the dead. When he goes home at night, he never cries for the little girls with pretty smiles that were lost; he cries for the living because he knows there is no point in crying for the dead.

Sofia is talking to the little boy and the fretful wife. They're crying now, more tears falling like raindrops, _pitter patter, _to the floor. Greg fears that one day he will drown in all the tears.

The case is closed and the day is done. It began in blood and ended in tears. Greg knows that when he goes home, he's probably going to dream of that pretty smile and the man that took it away. He knows he's going to wake up and make it so that he has to wear those loathed long-sleeved shirts for the next few weeks. Seeing the broken family before him, a physical embodiment of the sorrow of this case, cuts into some part of him that hasn't been completely dulled yet. Even so, he doesn't crumple to floor or bemoan the cruelty of world ('_It's too melodramatic_,' Greg thinks with distaste). When everything reaches the lowest point and all that's left is pain and nothingness, he still grins. He knows today can't destroy him.

"How's it going, Greg?"

"Same old."

Because in the end it's just another day.


	2. Glitter

Part 2: Glitter

It is the beginning of autumn when Ellie first arrives in Hollywood. She gets off the plane with a glossy smile and devil may care attitude, following a friend, ready to adopt a new life. Her friend wants to be a star and Ellie has decided to tag along. She figures she has nowhere better to be.

Ellie doesn't like to take things slowly; she's all about the now and how much fun it can be. She doesn't slow down and never stops. She was born in Jersey, grew up in Jersey, and got the hell out of Jersey as soon as she could. She's been running since then and hasn't stopped yet.

Los Angeles is sunshine, short skirts, and backdoor deals. It's cold, hard cash and fallen stars and runaways. It's nothing like Jersey. It's nothing like Vegas either.

It's not long before Ellie finds herself kneeling on the floor, remnants of white powder on the table in front of her. It's just one hit, she reasons, one hit to get through one night. It's only one night. Then, Ellie is standing on a street corner next to her friend who wants to be a star, both of them a picture perfect cliché.

One night turns into two, three, four, five…

Ellie gets a job waiting tables at a posh restaurant. Her friend who wants to be a star doesn't get a call back again. A few nights a week they'll wander to their corner, careful not to intrude on anyone's space. Ellie is a natural, she _knows _she is. It's not arrogance, as a number of people have told her that very thing. It's not glamorous or romantic, but Ellie makes sure it is as fun. The pills and the powder accompany her on those nighttime rendezvous and keep that come-hither-smile on her face and the cringe off.

Everything is fine. Ellie doesn't regret anything she has done. She's exactly where she wants to be. Ellie reminds herself of these things every morning when she forces her eyes to open to the stained ceiling of her bedroom. When she looks into the mirror that night with bloodshot eyes, staring at the girl before her, she almost lets herself think the things she shouldn't- nothing is fine, she regrets everything, she wants to be gone, gone, gone. Almost.

One night, Ellie returns home with a black eye, a sprained wrist, and a lesson learned. Life is a little bit less of a game now. That night, when she stares at the girl in the mirror, she allows herself to think for the first time how much she truly hates this. It doesn't matter though. This job, this city, this life- all of this is just temporary. This job is just for some quick cash. This city is just a quick stop on the road to fuck-knows-where. She will be leaving soon, so it doesn't really matter how much she hates it now.

The next time Ellie goes out, back to that little corner, a week later, she sways her hips when she walks and smiles at the shadows inside cars. When she stands, bare, in front of the mirror that night and sees the marks on boney hips, she knows it doesn't matter because she will be out of here by winter.

It's winter now. Ellie misses snow. She misses snowball fights and snow angels- all those things she hasn't done since she was a kid- and she even misses cursing the slush every morning when it inevitably dirties her jeans. Winter used to be Ellie's favorite season. Winter in Los Angeles means rain and cold. There is no sparkling ice or snowflakes decorating the streets, but it is wet and cold enough for her to be freezing as she stands under the ledge of a building, shivering in too-thin clothing.

Ellie walks home that night with a handful of bills in her purse. She knows her worth- no matter what her father thinks- and it happens to be enough to pay for her apartment. There is a needle and a spoon placed haphazardly on the floor by her couch when she gets home. Ellie rolls her eyes; they know she hates it when they leave needles on the floor; she's going to end up impaling her foot one day. Her friend who wants to be a star has been crashing at her apartment for a few weeks and has brought a new friend along.

Ellie likes the new friend. She has a rare charm, a quality that just can't be faked. She embodies the feeling of Old Hollywood, which may be why she has so many repeat clients- it's hard to let something like that go once you have a hold of it. Ellie likes to call her Glamour and the new friend doesn't mind, so she never stops.

In fact, Glamour is the one who helps Ellie get over her fear of needles.

"It's just mind over matter, sweetheart." Glamour coos and kisses the blonde on the cheek. "Just a little pain for a lot of pleasure. Trust me."

Ellie isn't an angel and hasn't been innocent for a very long time. She has been doing drugs since she was twelve. She started with a little weed when she was hanging out with her friends. When she was fifteen she decided ecstasy was actually pretty nice and could make a wild party even wilder. She began taking stronger stuff when she moved to Vegas with Keith. By the time she is wrapped up in the golden webs of Hollywood, she is enjoying powders and pills of every sort. The needles are but the next step up the ladder. Sometimes, she doesn't even know what she's taking. She'll be handed something to sniff or swallow of inject, and she will. Her father would be so proud.

Ellie and her friend who wants to be a star are still independent, but Glamour has someone. Glamour calls him protection. The friend who wants to be a star calls him management. Ellie calls him a pimp.

It's two weeks until Christmas when Glamour turns up at the apartment with broken bones and budding bruises. She wanted to leave, she explains, but he wouldn't let her. Glamour doesn't want to be here anymore and decides enough is enough.

"I didn't come out here to be a star," she explains to Ellie. "I came out here to see what there was to see. Well," a sad smile is cast before she continues, "I've seen it. My mama, she's real nice, and I miss her. I'm going to go home."

Ellie hasn't felt so betrayed since her father packed up and walked out the door all those years ago.

Christmas is lonely. The friend who wants to be a star isn't around much anymore, always trying to cozy up to a producer or a director or a writer. Ellie lost her job at the posh restaurant a week ago for showing up high.

On Christmas Eve, Ellie wraps her coat around herself and shuffles out into the night-caressed streets. She wanders up and down sidewalks, by stores decorated in dangling lights, and comes to stop outside a church.

Ellie's mother was a Catholic and Ellie's father was an atheist. Her mother used to take her to mass every Sunday until she turned thirteen and decided God didn't exist and if he did, he sure as hell didn't like her. Why should she waste her time on some ancient notion of a greater being?

A family rushes up the steps and through the large, wooden doors, minutes before Midnight Mass will start. Light and warmth pour from inside the building when the doors are opened, disappearing once again when they shut behind the family. Ellie suddenly thinks it's much colder and much darker than it was a moment before. Faint notes of a Christmas carol slip through the closed doors and brick walls. The blonde stands in her spot for a few moments longer before she carefully walks up the steps, opens the heavy doors, and enter the church.

On Christmas Eve, Ellie goes to church for the first time in nine years.

A week later, the friend who wants to be a star stumbles through Ellie's apartment door and crumbles to the floor is a mess of makeup and tears. She's shaking and babbling incoherently.

"It's not working." she cries. Ellie determines she must have lost another part. "This was it. This was going to be it."

Ellie pulls her friend into her arms, sitting on the floor next to her. The apartment is cold, winter creeping in through the cracks, and the floor is close to freezing, but neither care.

"You're gonna make it. You're gonna be a star, remember? It's just gonna take a bit longer." Ellie soothes.

The friend who wants to be a star has dilated eyes and is shivering, her fingernails beginning to draw lines of blood up and down her arms.

"Hey, stop that." The young woman takes hold of her friend's wrists. It is obvious she is coming crashing down from the highest high.

Ellie sits with the friend who wants to be a star for what seems like eternities upon forevers. '_I can't take much more of this_,' the young blonde thinks with every cry that escapes the friend in her lap. When she finally gets her temporary roommate settled into her bed for the night, she stares down at the girl she has known since she was a teenager. Her friend has drying tear tracks and smudged makeup covering her face. There are dark circles under her eyes from too many sleepless nights, sunken cheeks from too many skipped meals, and track marks on her arms from too many lost dreams. '_She's gone,_' Ellie decides. This isn't her friend anymore. Ellie won't stick around to watch the remaining pieces of her friend fall away. She won't watch her own life fall apart any more than it already has. She'll be gone by spring.

Spring rolls in without warning, forcing the cold away. Girls stop covering tank tops with coats or sweaters and sandals begin to reappear. For the first time Ellie notices how many blondes are in California. She dyes her hair black.

The friend who wants to be a star is long gone. She made her way to the San Fernando Valley a few weeks ago. '_Maybe she will be a star._' Ellie thinks bitterly.

Ellie hasn't spoken to her mother since she arrived in Hollywood with the friend who wants to be a star. Her mother would flip if she saw her hair. Her mom had always taken pride in her own golden locks and never allowed Ellie to dye her hair. Secretly, as a child, Ellie had always wished she had dark hair like her father. Then again, she wanted to be just like her father in almost every way when she was young. She idolized him. Her daddy was a cop. He caught bad guys. She had been so proud. Ellie always tried so hard to live up to any expectations she thought he might have of her. When Ellie was a teenager, she began to notice how her father would look at her- like she was a disappointment. The thing is, he wasn't around enough to be disappointed in anything she did, so she didn't really know what the look was.

Ellie sits on her thin mattress looking at the few pictures she had brought with her from Jersey. In one of them, she is sat on her father's shoulders, tiny hands grabbing onto his hair as he laughed through a wince of pain. A smile makes its way onto the young woman's lips before she can stop it, but she is quick to banish it away. He doesn't get her smiles anymore. She continues to stare at the figures in the photo, long gone and sorely missed.

"Things change." she murmurs to herself.

She looks at a picture of her ten-year-old self holding an "artist's award" and an award for academic achievement. When she was young, Ellie thought she was going to write and illustrate children's books, and be a famous singer with her own television show on the side. Somewhere along the way, straight A's turned into barely passes. She fell in with the "wrong group" of kids. Reality reared its ugly head and dreams seemed to slip away one by one. Everyone has potential when they're young, she wasn't special. Sometimes that potential can be reached, most of the time it just crumbles away. She's the result.

She leans against a brick wall, scowling at a middle-aged couple who are staring at her in distaste. Yeah, like she's the one infecting this beautiful, pure city. She rolls her eyes in exasperation and takes a drag on her cigarette. The older woman casts one last disdainful glance at her.

"Supply and demand, sweetheart." Ellie mumbles.

The man also throws a glance back at her, but his is anything but disdainful.

"Lovely." Ellie thinks maybe she should feel smug, but she just feels slightly sickened.

The days are brighter and warmer, marking the nearing of summer. It has been too hot today, Ellie decides, much too hot. Though, the temperatures today haven't been any higher than those yesterday.

The sun has just set, the sky a dusty blue, when a police car comes to a stop in front of Ellie and her group of friends. Baggies are quickly and oh so subtly stuffed into purses as two officers make their way of the patrol car. The next thing Ellie knows, she's being handcuffed and read her rights. Wonderful.

Ellie has done a lot of things that push the boundaries of being legal in California. She's done similarly unsound things in Jersey and Nevada too. Even so, Ellie has never been arrested. Sure, she was questioned in Vegas with that whole murder thing, but never, ever arrested. She won't admit it to herself, but she is pretty completely terrified.

Ellie really wishes she were high right now.

Everything seems to rush by in a blur, even without the drugs in her system. She's being charged with solicitation and drug possession. They ask for her dealer, offer her an easy way out; she takes it.

When she gets home a bright globe is beginning to peak up from beyond the horizon. Warm colors leak from the sun, replacing the cold blues of night.

Ellie doesn't turn on any lights in her apartment, just sits down on her ratty, old couch. She sits in silence. Hush, hush, hush. When the silence becomes too loud, she moves, stumbling to her phone, which sits in its charger on the floor.

She dials. Waits.

"Hello?" That's her mother's voice. "Hello?" Ellie presses the 'talk' button, effectively ending the call.

Ellie stares at the phone that's cradled in her hands and wonders if it's all worth it. She shakes her head as if to clear away her thoughts. It doesn't matter, she'll be gone soon, away from everything Hollywood. For now, she just needs some money to get her back on her feet. Once she has that, she'll stop tricking, and then she won't need the drugs anymore. Everything will be fine. She'll be out of here by the summer.

A Californian summer is tans and sweat and bikinis. Ellie has pale skin and can't tan, just burn, so she is constantly lathering unscented sunscreen all over her bare limbs.

A little ice-cream shop opens two blocks from her apartment and she gets a job working the cash register there Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. On Tuesdays and Saturdays she works at a little video rental that is not too far from the ice-cream place.

It's a humid Friday night. Ellie cringes as she feels the few clothes she is wearing stick to her. It's been a miserable night. No one seems to be interested tonight and she hasn't had a hit in much too long. The raven-haired woman lets out a delicate grunt of frustration as she searches her purse for cigarettes with shaky fingers. She finally relents with a hopeless sigh.

"Hey." Ellie looks up at the call. Another girl dressed in similar clothing with a similarly bleak smile holds out a cigarette. Ellie quickly grabs it.

"Thanks." A flame. Inhale. Relax. "Jersey."

The other girl gives a toothy smile. "Dakota."

Dakota reminds Ellie of herself in a lot of ways. She doesn't talk about where she came from, just where she's going. She likes things now. She likes fun. It's not long before Dakota is Ellie's new roommate. Ellie has never been fond of living by herself. She always has someone there, it has never mattered who.

Dakota doesn't like to be called Sasha. One evening, when both are lying on Ellie's bed, staring up at nothing, Ellie asks her why.

"I'm not Sasha anymore. I'm Dakota now. They're not the same person." Ellie understands.

Later, when Ellie looks back, she thinks that is the moment she stopped being Ellie and fully became Jersey.

Every night is a risk. Every car, every alley, every guy is a risk. Ellie doesn't consider herself an adrenalin junkie, but sometimes, she needs that thrill. Sometimes the mere knowledge that it is a risk, makes it so _good_.

She thinks maybe that's why she had loved being with Keith. Their relationship was fast, passionate, and wrong. Her father disapproved, so did her mother. Keith was not a nice person. Keith was perfect for her.

Ellie met Keith when she was 20. He was dating her friend. They flirted (that's what Ellie calls it, anyway) for months before "officially" becoming a couple when his girlfriend caught them in bed together. One night, Ellie came over to his apartment to find him packing his bag. He was moving to Las Vegas in a week, he explained, and does she want to go with him?

"My dad's in Vegas." she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I thought you didn't talk to him anymore." Keith closed up a suitcase.

"I don't." He raised an eyebrow.

"So? You wanna go?"

"Sure."

That's when she really started running. Before, running had meant new boys, new drugs, new ways to make her mother yell or cry. Running had meant ignoring her father when he did bother to call. Now, running meant the world, meant no limitations, meant going somewhere.

Ellie lies, sprawled, on her bed atop thin sheets. Her head lolls to the side, eyes catching the tiny card that permanently rests on her bedside table. "Dream Harbor, Rehabilitation Facility" is scrawled across the little rectangle in fancy, curved letters- a parting gift from her father. She never threw it out; she had meant to.

It's cold tonight. Stars dusted across black, glittering. Ellie's looking up, counting stars, ignoring the girls and boys leaning into cars and going into alleys. She ignores the feel of sun-warmed bricks pressing against her, already partially cooled from the night air.

It's her birthday.

Dakota nudges her before walking over to some snazzy black car and getting in. Ellie nods a "see you soon".

There's a boy across the street. He looks young, Ellie thinks. The light from a streetlamp is reflected off his shirt. Her vision is obstructed when a car pulls up in front of him. When it leaves, he's gone, disappeared like the wisps of her cigarette smoke into the night sky. Fluorescent lights glow, accenting store names and open signs.

Ellie breathes in deeply, breathes in Hollywood. Everything here is covered in glitter.

Ellie's not used to being referred to by her given name anymore. She's used to 'Jersey' now. At some point, pulling tricks changed from being a quick way to make cash to being a career. At some point, the stretch on Hollywood Boulevard between Highland and Vine became hers. At some point, _this _became her life. It doesn't matter though. After all, she'll be gone by the autumn.


	3. A Call for Heroes

Part 3: A Call for Heroes

Their first meeting goes as first meetings often do- shaky smiles and cautious glances peppering awkward words.

She stands outside the hospital, sunlight bouncing off of the white stone wall behind her, and glares at everyone who looks her way.

He saunters through the sliding doors, bracing himself against the sudden gust of warmth he is greeted with. Oblivious to the scowl he will receive if she catches him staring, he allows his eyes to wander over to the figure a few feet adjacent to him.

Ellie Brass, with raven locks pushed haphazardly behind her ears and a cigarette planted firmly in her mouth, stands in the now familiar spot. Unable to go in and unable to leave, she has condemned herself to the heat of a Vegas summer (until she runs out of cigarettes, anyway).

She finally notices the man whose eyes have yet to leave her.

"What?" she snaps.

The man has brown blonde hair falling into his eyes and a dopey, as Ellie classifies it, expression on his face. He looks entirely too uncomfortable in the rumpled dress shirt (or maybe his skin, Ellie muses).

Greg Sanders stands and stares in all his fading glory.

'What?' he thinks. Oh. Staring. He looks down (a subconscious action reflective of his embarrassment) and then back up again.

"Sorry," he mumbles. Then louder, "Sorry. I was lost in thought." The first awkward words are his; the ritual commences.

Ellie squints at the man. He attempts a grin and fails. He tries again and this time his lips fall into a slightly quirked position. The first shaky smile makes its appearance.

She casts the first cautious glance.

Their first meeting goes well as far as first meetings concerning Greg or Ellie go. It ends when Ellie gives the criminalist the finger, and he gets the message and takes his leave.

* * *

Brass is going to be okay; Grissom said so. The collective feeling of relief is almost palpable throughout the lab and precinct. Without the anxiety or worry weighing them down, the CSIs continue on in their jobs and lives with renewed vigor. During the days following, Grissom seems quieter and Sophia barks out a few comments about Brass's daughter with barely concealed disgust.

It's Greg's night off. He knows ghosts will visit him and his mind will turn against him tonight; he can tell it's one of _those_ nights. He decides attempting to sleep would be pointless. There is a local band playing at a club a few blocks away. The young criminalist needs the people and the noise and the anonymity.

The set has already started by the time he arrives. The music is far too loud and Greg can barely discern the singer's words from the sounds of the instruments.

'They're really pretty terrible,' Greg thinks before pushing his way into the crowd and losing himself in the chaos.

Stuck in between the clichéd rockers and kids looking to unwind, there is a girl nodding her head in time with the beat and curving her body around every note. Uncut hair flops over her eyes and lips part slightly, sucking in air. A plastic cup is clutched in her hand, its contents sloshing over the rim from time to time.

Greg finds himself squeezing by bodies and stepping on feet as he makes his way slowly over to her. She looks so familiar. A name momentarily rests on the tip of his tongue, but he soon loses it again. Greg quickly takes note of her features, running through a list of people he has seen within the past few days. Black hair, waif-like body. Ah. The girl from the hospital.

Suddenly startling russet eyes are on him.

"You again." her voice isn't friendly, but it's not_ too_ hostile. Greg waves weakly.

They are at different places in life. She has just been pulled back from the cliff's edge, but remains stranded on delicate ground, the cracks beneath her feet growing longer and wider every day. Sturdy ground sits beneath him, but he continues on his way to that same edge, unwittingly about to head right over it.

"What are you, my stalker?" Her words are tinged with annoyance, yelled over the music, but she turns her body to face Greg and keeps her eyes on him.

Greg holds his hands up in a sign of innocence and mock surrender.

"Purely coincidence, I swear." She raises a finely shaped eyebrow. He grins in a way he sincerely hopes is not at all creepy.

"I'm Greg."

The girl's eyes skim over him, sizing him up. She apparently makes some decision because without warning there are warm lips sliding over his. He's surprised to find that she tastes of cherry coke as opposed to cigarettes as he expected. His eyes droop and all of his senses seem to dim. All there is is the taste of cherry coke and that slight pressure on his lips. She pulls away too soon.

"Ellie." Greg squints at her. That name sounds familiar too. He ignores the niggling sense that he is missing a key piece of information and focuses on her voice. "You live nearby, Greg?"

Greg means to say no. He doesn't do one-night stands, not often. He doesn't sleep with strangers (he's seen where that can lead). He means to say no. Instead, he says, "Yeah. Want to come over for some coffee?"

"Coffee?" Ellie smiles like she can't believe he just used that line. They both know if she comes home with him it won't be for coffee.

"Well, coffee or illicit, fun stranger-sex?" Greg waggles his eyebrows in a thoroughly ridiculous and un-cool manner. He feels a great sense of accomplishment when the girl laughs.

"I'll go for the latter." She tangles her fingers with his and tugs him out of the club.

* * *

Ellie sits at a small table outside the fast-food restaurant. She chews on a straw while she allows her mind to wander. She went to visit her father again today. He's out of the hospital now. She called him and got herself invited over. Brass spent the entire visit with that typical disappointed look on his face. It only intensified when she asked for some money. He chuckled and she new this is what he was waiting for. In that moment she was so angry with him. How dare he judge her? He isn't perfect and never has been. What kind of father has he been that he expects her to be any kind of daughter? She took the money anyway and left without another word.

The straw slips from her mouth and she feels a pinch on her lip as her teeth puncture the soft flesh. She sucks on the wound, ignoring the metallic flavor that immediately overtakes her taste buds.

Ellie isn't sure where she's going to go now. She needs a new place, new people. Ellie has track marks on her arms, weeks old though they may be. They're part of her who she is; they're not part of who she wants to be.

Ellie isn't clean, but she's not high either, and that's something.

Memories of the light-headed boy with the bittersweet smile interrupt her previous thoughts. He wouldn't undress until the lights were off. He wasn't shy, though, not really. He readily took the lead, but his kisses remained light and sweet throughout the night.

"Strange boy," she drawls quietly.

Greg, she thinks of the name fondly, is the first guy she has slept with since Hollywood. Ellie thinks that should be significant somehow.

* * *

Greg tugs the sheet corners free from under the mattress. He has never liked doing laundry. He tries to avoid it for as long as he can while still maintaining an acceptable level of hygiene. His covers are finally ripped from their captivity and he tosses them into a large basket on the floor. They hold a very distinctive scent at the moment, a scent which draws memories of the previous night.

Ellie was kind of awesome, Greg decides.

To be honest, the actual sex wasn't anything special. It was passionate to a point and sweet enough. She wasn't the love of his life or even a friend with benefits, but she was warm and she was there. What they did, what they had for those few hours, was something close to comfort, close to reaffirmation, close to real.

But Ellie…Ellie was pretty awesome. She knew when not to press and what not to question. She was self-confident and flaunted her I-don't-care-what-the-fuck-you-think attitude.

Though, she_ had_ practically run out of his apartment. (He understands her need for a quick getaway, but it wasn't like he was going to pull out his class ring and ask her to go steady.) Greg wonders if maybe he should be kind of insulted.

* * *

Ellie misses Jersey; she has for a while now. Even back in California she craved the comfortable familiarity of home. Several hour before her flight is schedule to leave Ellie drops by the precinct to visit her father one last time. She still feels slighted by the comments he made the day before, but she would never pass up an opportunity to show her father the result of his mistakes, his failures.

The dark-haired girl walks into the precinct wearing her spite and resentment like a cloak wrapped tightly around her, covering her from head to foot. The officer at the front desk doesn't know who she is, is visibly surprised when she explains that she is here to see her father.

Brass doesn't smile at her when they say their say their goodbyes. Ellie hadn't realized how long it has been since she has seen her father smile. She is upset to find she can't remember the last time he did so.

Their short visitation ends when Brass brings up rehab. Ellie promptly hisses that she _is _clean, which isn't a complete lie because today she is clean. All the hate that usually accompanies her thoughts of her father begins to fill her being. She hates him for all the things he's never done and for all the things he has done. She hates him for leaving. She hates him for not loving her until it was too late.

As fitting such a scene, she proceeds to storm out of the precinct.

Only once she is engulfed in sunshine does Ellie allow the anger to slip from her face. It still smolders near the surface, waiting to be unleashed or buried and saved for another time.

By the time the raven-haired woman reaches her rental car, the anger is slowly slipping into indifference. It is during this in between moment that the boy and the girl meet again. Whether it is fate or simply coincidence, they are reunited once more. This meeting is much quieter than the first two. There's dawning understanding in place of dangerous curiosity, muffled background noise in place of guitar riffs, and unreadable stares in place of sultry or hesitant smiles. The blinders have been ripped from their eyes and in a split second they know.

"Ellie." Greg doesn't smile, though the look he adopts is not unfriendly. "You visiting someone?"

Ellie watches him carefully. She once again notes how uncomfortable he seems in his suit.

"Yeah. My father." Her tone is neutral. The suit says he is working, his vehicle says he works for the crime lab, and the look on his face says he knows who she is, knows who her father is.

"Ellie Brass?" His tone implies he isn't surprised, only he kind of is.

"At your service." She casts a sardonic smile in his direction before turning back to her car. She rolls down the car window as he walks over to lean against her door, elbow casually resting on the roof. For a moment she feels a backwards rush of déjà vu.

"You sticking around here?" He knows her too well too fast; it makes her uneasy.

She shakes her head. "Jersey," she offers in explanation. He makes a noise of affirmation. With a quick smile, he straightens and steps away from the car. He stands by the side of the parking lot as her car pulls away and makes its way down the street.

The girl drives into the sunset while the boy watches her go.

* * *

The next time Ellie and Greg meet it's on a sidewalk outside of a casino at 5 a.m. The months have changed them as time often does. Ellie's arms are wrapped tightly around her thin waist, and she's trembling slightly. Greg's hands are fisted in his pockets, and his shoulders slumped in permanent defeat, eyes locking onto the familiar figure of the girl from underneath a fringe of scraggly hair. Ellie watches the boy a few feet away, not moving any closer or any further.

He's not going anywhere and she doesn't quite know where she is.

It's Ellie's second day back in Vegas. Fresh needle marks and dilated pupils accompanied her on her first day back.

Greg considers the girl with apathetic eyes. He doesn't leave so she slowly walks towards him.

"Hey, stranger." Ellie murmurs, unsure if she is heard over the bustle of the street.

"Long time no see."

When they smile it's more out of necessity, of practice than anything. She smiles like she doesn't have anything to lose. He smiles as if he is about to lose everything.

"How was Jersey?"

"Fucking freezing. How's Vegas?"

"Fucking hot." Greg's grin widens teasingly.

Neither moves, not quite knowing where to step or where the boundaries lie.

Greg finally asks, "Want to grab a coffee?"

Ellie gives him a look. Greg smiles in remembrance.

"Really, coffee. Not code for stranger-sex this time." he assures.

"Too bad."

"Well, hey, let's not rule anything out." Ellie laughs softly at Greg's quick reply.

The coffee shop is cool and mostly empty. An elderly man with a newspaper sits in a quiet corner and two baristi talk behind the counter. Ellie puts too much sugar in her coffee, but Greg doesn't comment on it.

Their conversation remains light, discussing the stupidity of reality t.v. and their mutual love of The Clash. Ellie fiddles with sugar packets while Greg tugs at his shirt sleeves absently. Eventually they run out of words and are left in silence. Greg invites Ellie back to his place and she readily accepts.

Ellie went home, met with old friends and old problems. Now she wants someone to save her. Ellie looks at Greg and sees a savior.

Greg looks at Ellie and sees a way to not be left alone with his nightmares.

At some point between the first touch and last kiss Ellie realizes her savior is just as broken as she is.

Greg is disappointed. He had hoped that would help, had hoped she would help. Lately, everything has feels half-real. It's like being caught in a dizzy spell, blood rushing to his head, watching from outside the box. It is like he is slowly coming apart at the seams with only a few remaining thin threads holding him together.

He has blood on his hands now, blood he never thought would be there. He's not a cop, he doesn't like to carry a gun or knowing how to fire it. In his mind he is still a scientist, nothing more or less. He wasn't expecting this, he should have been ready, but he wasn't expecting this.

He just wanted to be a hero.

The two figures lie side by side, both so profoundly let down by the other.

Ellie slowly rises on shaky legs. There are tears in her eyes, though she won't let them fall. Greg doesn't move. When she is about to walk out the door, she pauses and looks at him. She doesn't know what to say, so she says nothing. The young man pushes himself to face her. Their eyes lock, and then she is gone.

Ellie leaves once again.

Greg doesn't know what to do.


	4. A Soundtrack for Tomorrow

Part 4: A Soundtrack for Tomorrow

Track 1: NIRVANA

When Greg started university, grunge had seeped into mainstream music scenes and Nirvana was becoming one of the biggest bands around.

Almost everyone has a Nirvana phase and Greg was no exception. Nirvana was the soundtrack to Greg's first year away from home. Their raspy singing, heavy beats and driving guitar accompanied him while he explored his newfound freedom and, once he was more settled and subsequently focused, during hours spent pouring over textbooks and essays.

Greg slumps over a mug of coffee, tiredly gazing at the waitresses and other customers populating the diner. His shift starts in an hour and he is desperately trying to wake up a little more before he has to go in. When he woke up earlier that night he was aghast to find that he had run out of coffee.

Greg's mind begins to drift to familiar thoughts- his death, or rather the method by which his death will be carried out. The criminalist thinks he should perhaps be worried that he spends far too many hours planning the possible ways he may die. He's not sure if that is entirely healthy. It's not that he wants to die. He pauses and stirs his coffee. No, it's not that he wants to die, it's just that he has preferences for the way he is going to die one day. He wants his death to be interesting. Maybe an umbrella through the head or asphyxiation by headphone cord. Something colorful would be nice. It can't be too undignified, however. Greg wants to go in style. Something flashy, but classy.

He thinks about Kurt Cobain and wonders if the singer planned what he was going to do, if he put much thought into it. His musings are pointless and a little bit morbid, but he does decide one thing- he does not want to die with a bullet through the head or drugs in his veins.

Track 2: THE CRANNBERRIES

Before coming to Vegas, Greg worked in New York. He got his first real job working as a lab technician in a crime lab in New York City (this did not include the two months after graduating university spent working at a small research facility in San Francisco where he spent more time organizing files than in the lab). He learned a lot during his time spent there. A few months after moving to New York he became involved in his first serious, adult relationship.

The first time they kissed was on their second date. She had invited him over for dinner and to watch a movie, but they ended up listening to music and munching on popcorn. When she discovered he had never heard of The Cranberries, she insisted upon sticking one of their CDs into the player. He sat obediently and listened. The first song wasn't even halfway done when she leaned over and kissed him.

Greg bought the CD the next day, not because he instantly fell in love with The Cranberries, but because he is hopelessly sentimental.

Greg hasn't dated anyone in almost a year now. The cases consume so much of his time and energy, it is difficult to maintain or even start a relationship.

The criminalist finally meets someone he is willing to make an effort for one day after work while at a grocery store. He dates her for five weeks.

The girl's eyes are bright with summer sunshine and laughter, and she always wears large bracelets that clang when she waves her arms. She doesn't know anything about music but loves to dance. They go on six dates before she breaks up with him.

Greg is sitting with her in his apartment, sipping at his wine, when she ends it. It's all wrong because The Cranberries are playing quietly in the background and The Cranberries are supposed to be good memories and warm feelings and kisses.

The girl tells him he's just too depressing (or depressed, or maybe both, he can't remember). This rattles Greg. He's been broken up with many times before (too loud, too immature, too weird, and, on one memorable occasion, too male) but never for being a downer. Greg loves parties, he loves to have fun, he loves to smile and laugh. It is after hearing this new reason for the termination of his latest relationship that Greg realizes he hasn't been doing those things he loves for much too long. He hasn't been himself for much too long.

He sits long after the girl has left and the CD has ended, wondering what the hell has happened.

Track 3: PRODIGY

Greg used to go to clubs fairly often after he graduated from university. Not only did Greg learn his way around a lab in New York, but his way around a dance floor.

The first time Greg heard Prodigy was at a club a group of friends dragged him to. He remembers turning to one of his friends and yelling over the music how "totally trippy" the song was. Greg immediately made his way to the dance floor, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to be slowly wrapped in webs of music, his body moving as instructed by the tune. The song was harsh and frantic and it pulled him in. The mass of dancing kids pushing against him and flashing lights served to make the experience seem like some kind of trick of the mind, some drug-induced waking dream.

All these years later, this is how Greg feels, except this time there is no music or alcohol or lights swamping his senses. This time there is just the overwhelming confusion and dissociation from reality. This time it isn't fun or exciting, and he wants badly for the feelings and sensations to go away. He's upside down and more than anything wants to be right side up again.

Even with his life spiraling further and further out of his control and his sanity slipping further and further from his grasp, Greg never considers leaving. He never considers quitting.

He knows he isn't right. He knows. But he doesn't know how to be right anymore.

He's stuck.

Greg needs something or someone to wrench him off of the path he seems to be trapped on. He doesn't want to keep going where he's heading, but he can't stop moving.

Track 4: THE CLASH

Greg did not go to his senior prom. Instead, he and a group of friends went down to the beach equipped with blankets, beer, and a portable stereo. Everyone contributed some tapes and they all danced and drank and laughed until the sun rose. By the time the sun was beginning to peak out over the horizon most of the kids were asleep in the back of the pick-up truck or on the blankets. Greg and two other teens remained awake. Neither teenager was Greg's best friend (Greg never actually had a best friend in high school). The boy was a member of the chess club and the girl was a friend of a friend. It didn't matter. Greg sat with these two not-quite-friends and watched the sunrise while The Clash (one of the tapes he added to the pile) played in the background. The moment was forever etched into his mind, even time was unable to diminish its splendor.

Since that day, while for the most part subconsciously, Greg has only ever listened to The Clash when he was content (never when sad or excited or anything in between).

Greg slowly makes his way out of the police station, having just dropped off a file for Sofia. Another case solved. Another dead body. The criminalist's thoughts are interrupted by a woman's exclamation. In the waiting area a woman is embracing a young man who was just escorted in by an officer.

"It's great, isn't it?" Sara's voice startles him. She steps over to his side, nodding slightly to the joyful couple.

Greg doesn't know any of the details of Sara's case, he doesn't even know the bare necessities. He does know that it has a happy ending. That's enough.

"Yeah, it is great." Greg says sincerely.

Before Greg begins his drive home that morning, he sifts through his booklet of CDs and slips _London Calling_ into his CD player.

Track 5: THREE DAYS GRACE

Archie bought Greg a Three Days Grace CD for his birthday a few years ago, back when he was still a lab rat. The CD case has a jagged crack running along it from when Greg accidentally stepped on it a few days after receiving the gift. The young lab tech had played the CD in his lab for a few weeks straight, partially to show Archie how much he like the present and partially to annoy Nick as he knew the CSI hated the band.

Now, looking at the familiar broken case, Greg runs his fingers absently over the listing of song titles on the back. He realizes he hasn't listened to this CD since he left the lab and entered the field.

Sitting on the floor of his apartment in front of his stereo system, Greg carefully pushes the CD into the machine. After skipping the first track just like he always has, Greg smiles when the familiar sounds of the second track begin to fill the apartment.

Track 6: THE OFFSPRING

During the years at Stanford, Greg became very close to his roommate, Pete. Pete was quiet, a little dense sometimes, but a genuinely nice guy. He majored in physics and followed a pretty strict studying schedule. One quirk Greg had to learn to adapt to was Pete's need of music in order to focus on studying. The Offspring tended to be played nonstop in their dorm room courtesy of Pete. Greg would try to switch around the CDs sometimes, but somehow The Offspring always managed to take over their stereo again.

Greg has kept in touch with Pete over the years, talking and meeting sporadically.

Greg returns home from work one night to find a message from Pete on his answering machine. His former roommate is coming to Vegas with his wife and daughter to visit the in-laws. Greg grins; he hasn't seen Pete's daughter since she was just a month old.

In a few weeks time, Greg is reunited with Pete and Pete's four-year-old. Hugs are exchanged and within the first five minutes of meeting up with them Greg has fallen in love with Pete's daughter. She's small and sweet and innocent and just so utterly beautiful.

Greg spends the afternoon playing with the child, toting her around on his back, and allowing his hair to be tugged at.

"You have some kid there, Pete." Greg says warmly as his friend maneuvers his sleeping daughter into the car.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Pete murmurs as he straightens and turns to Greg. He gazes searchingly at the criminalist for a moment before pulling Greg into a tight hug. "Take care of yourself, yeah?"

Greg nods, slightly puzzled. "You too. Give my love to Anna, okay?"

As Greg watches the car disappear into the distance, he is left with a smile on his face, the lingering feeling of his friend's warm embrace, and numerous tangles in his hair.

Track 7: SEX PISTOLS

The first thing Greg ever bought with his own money was an old, used Sex Pistols record. He was twelve. The young boy felt the need for some teenage rebellion and secretly hoped that blaring the record would aggravate his parents.

By this time it was the late 80's and the Sex Pistols were old news. Punk, with all its freedom and acceptance and liberalistic views, held great appeal to the young teen. Sadly, by then punk had been declared dead, though Greg firmly believed it was merely comatose.

Greg always considered punk fashion interesting. When he was a teen he briefly considered adopting the look, but decided it may traumatize his mother.

Since joining the ranks of CSI, Greg's wardrobe had changed drastically. Greg misses jeans; he realizes just how greatly when he finds himself focusing on John Lydon's jeans when watching a Sex Pistols documentary on a music channel.

So, after receiving this push from his subconscious, Greg starts wearing jeans to work again. They're nice, expensive jeans, but jeans nonetheless.

Greg also begins to style his hair once again.

One day, Greg goes into work wearing more hair product than he has in months and an old, worn pair of jeans. Sara hugs him, though he doesn't really know why.

Track 8: IGGY POP

Iggy Pop's music has never been particularly significant to Greg. He doesn't associate any special memories with the music. One of Greg's older cousin's gave him an Iggy Pop tape when he was a teenager because she didn't want it anymore. Greg decided he liked the music well enough and that was that, nothing particularly spectacular or notable.

It is a normal morning. The CSI lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling above him and listening to "China Girl", when suddenly it happens- he realizes he's alright. In an anticlimactic moment of sudden clarity he realizes he's actually okay. The world hasn't ended. He hasn't killed himself in a fit of insanity. He's here, alive, and he's fine. He's okay. It seems miraculous and yet he's not surprised.

Greg starts laughing, relief and near disbelief flooding his being. He brings his hands to cover his eyes and they soon feel wet, but his laughter never stops.


	5. To the End of the Universe and Back

Part 5: To the End of the Universe and Back

The sun has just set and the sky is painted a cool blue. A girl framed inside the streaky window of a dingy, little motel room watches it with indifferent eyes. While in Las Vegas Ellie bought a beat-up, old car at the first used car lot she could find. The moment the keys were in her hand she was on the road, driving until she couldn't any longer. She ended up here, a small town somewhere in Nebraska. She has a vague recollection of Wyoming and Idaho from when she passed through the states, but nothing substantial.

Ellie is clean now and realizes she has nothing and is going nowhere. Nebraska seems like as good a place as anywhere else, to do what Ellie isn't sure. To start over perhaps?

On her second day in the state, Ellie gets a job as a waitress in a small diner.

The first week in the town is filled with tremors and cramps and cravings. It starts to get easier after that.

It's hard to avoid God in this town. One Sunday morning Ellie finds herself kneeling in a pew, not quite sure how she got there.

She stays in Nebraska for three weeks. Ellie grows bored quickly and decides to head to New York. She leaves with a cross hanging around her neck, a cream pie from the diner, and a headache that never seems to leave.

Ellie likes New York. It's fast and angry and it almost reminders her of Vegas. Everyone is busy and, unlike in Nebraska, everyone is a stranger. New York is like fire; beautiful and alluring, but dangerous and quick to burn anyone who lingers too near.

New York isn't good for Ellie. It's much too familiar. By the second month she has met all the wrong people. She quickly falls into old patterns. She loses her car at some point She thinks it was stolen, though she's not really sure. Maybe she sold it and just can't remember (pieces of days seem to be going missing as of late).

This city is grand in a completely different way than L.A. and Vegas, but grand nonetheless. However, it's also tainted for Ellie, just like L.A. and Vegas are.

As her second month in New York comes to an end, Ellie finally shakes herself awake from the sleep-like state she had fallen into somewhere between the sharing a lighter and waking up on a stranger's dirty apartment floor. Rain slaps against her cheeks and soaks her clothes. Ellie stands on the sidewalk unmoving, her right hand clutching the cross at her neck which as been neglected for far too long. The thoughts running through her mind are jumbled and pained, '_Oh God, oh God. I'm here again. I'm stuck. Oh God. Oh Christ. Not again. Not again. Not again.' _She was supposed to be free from all this. She got out of California, out of Nevada and Jersey. She was gone. She was okay. She is supposed to be okay.

She _will_ be okay, she promises herself vehemently, she can save herself.

Ellie stays in New York for three months. She leaves with an ugly new set of track marks, more than a little self-hate, and a twenty dollar bill in her pocket.

Ellie makes her way down to Florida. Hitch-hiking only gets her so far and bus tickets become expensive. The young woman eventually gathers her remaining strength and calls her mother, who transfers enough money into Ellie's account to allow her to buy another rundown, rickety car.

It rains on Ellie's first day in the state.

Florida is humid and periodic showers litter the first few weeks spent there. It's all sunshine and fun. Most importantly, it is away from all the monsters Ellie is trying to escape from.

Not long after she arrives, Ellie moves in a blue-eyed boy with a sweet smile. He's quick to smile- a genuine smile that others cannot be blamed for being envious of- but rarely lets his soft laugh sound. He's a professional photographer and currently employed by a local paper. When he finds his new roommate admiring one of his framed photographs that is hanging on the wall, he offers to show her how to use his camera. Ellie readily accepts. Many hours are spent with the dark-haired girl hanging onto the boy's every word, her attention so entirely captured. He teaches her about perspective, lighting, and focus. She learns about color and shadows. He stresses the truth of the saying, "beauty is in the eye of the beholder", but he needn't as this is something she already knows. The boy is a wonderful teacher- patient, passionate and practiced- and Ellie is content to play the role of the adept pupil.

Florida is easy. It supplies Ellie with a safe haven where she can stop and think.

Florida is where Ellie finally stops blaming everything that has went wrong in her life on her father.

Ellie gets a job at a 1970's-themed club, standing outside the doors and drawing people in. She creates a life in Florida, one she isn't ashamed of. The time she spends here is nice, but it's always a step away from being completely _real_. Ellie feels like her life has been paused, like she's been taking a break. It is almost as if she has been granted temporary leave of herself and her horrible, self-perpetuated problems to think and heal and just be. Ellie needs to turn off pause and push play, she knows. She's just buying her time, letting events happen as they will and dictate her course of action. Soon enough she finds herself parting with the blue-eyed boy with the sweet smile. Their goodbye is quiet and free of anger. As she glances back over her shoulder to catch one last glimpse of him, the feeling of his arms around her still lingering, she knows she will never see him again.

After five months in Florida, Ellie leaves with a tan, bottle blonde hair, and a camera.

Ellie heads back to Georgia. She passed through the state on her way to Florida, but never had time to enjoy it. Anyways, Ellie tried not to remember those days between New York and Florida. They were all filled with pain and regret.

Ellie spends four weeks in Georgia, lazing around and taking pictures. Georgia is slow and warm and quiet. She leaves with a box half full of photographs, a bag of peaches, and new coat of paint on her rusty car.

After Georgia, Ellie drives, not stopping anywhere for more than a day. Her journey is eventually interrupted when her car breaks down in Illinois.

Her car is pretty thoroughly dead and Ellie doesn't have the money to fix it. Instead she sells it and decides to stick around Illinois for a while.

The young blonde ends up moving in with two women she meets outside a club. One of the women is starring in a new musical and the other is a script writer sleeping with three of the stars of her current play.

Ellie spends hours on the streets taking photos of strangers. One night, while going through her pictures of prostitutes and actors and businesspeople (she bitterly wonders at the difference in titles when, really, they all end up doing the same thing) she decides she likes them much more than the ones of the peach trees and blue skies of Georgia.

Ellie is hired by a small but not overly obscure magazine to take photos. She hasn't been interested in photography for long, but people tell her that her pictures capture emotion and something unnamable. "Raw talent" is what her friends (and boss) call it. She snorts at the words; she's heard them before.

Soon after having settled in her new home and new job, Ellie begins to locate the churches in the area. It is not long before she finds herself standing outside Queen of All Saints Basilica, gently fingering her cross necklace through the fabric of her shirt.

Illinois is where Ellie meets the man who reminds her of Prince Charming.

Ellie used to be a dreamer. When Ellie was six she saw Cinderella and has been waiting for Prince Charming ever since.

The man is always nicely done up and has a compliment ready- too good to be true. Ellie knows things that seem too good to be true _always _are. He is no exception. Her roommates warn her that he is a playboy. Ellie knows he is, but she doesn't let her mind dwell on that fact for too long.

He calls her princess without sounding like he is mocking her, and she falls head over heals for him as much as she allows herself. She loves him as much as one could love a man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, who shows up with lipstick on his collar and returns to her a gold bracelet that isn't hers. She keeps the bracelet anyway.

Eventually, it is time to move on and Ellie reluctantly packs.

She stays in Illinois for five months and leaves with a new bracelet, two boxes of photographs, and the beginning of a potentially successful career.

Ellie catches a ride to Colorado with a boy who seems to think she's just the prettiest thing; his girlfriend seems to think so too. Once they reach Colorado, the three spend a week living out of the car until they decide to take the plunge and rent a small apartment.

Ellie decides she is quite serious about her newly acquired love for photography. For the first time in years she feels like she can make something of herself, like she has the potential to be someone worthwhile. She signs up for a photography course and arranges a portfolio.

Ellie gets a job as a photographer for _Rocky Mountain News_, which is actually kind of major, she admits.

The boy and his girlfriend grow restless after a month and leave for Nowhere and Everywhere. Ellie stays. She has a good job, a real job and can afford and home and a life.

After four months, Ellie packs up and leaves with numerous boxes of photos, a sense of dignity she hasn't felt in years, and a ticket to Las Vegas, Nevada.


	6. From Sunsets to Sunrises

Part 6: From Sunsets to Sunrises

When Ellie arrives back in Vegas she is met with sunshine and thick heat.

Vegas is the same; the people, the clubs, the lights have remained unchanged. Ellie isn't the same. She avoids the shady places that hold shady people with bad intentions.

Ellie knows who she is and where she's going. She rents a small apartment and immediately goes to work photographing her new surroundings. Ellie takes her time adjusting to the new atmosphere, learning the city all over again.

She does not go to see her father.

Most nights Ellie goes to clubs and dances into oblivion. Other nights, she stands in the shadows, taking photographs of Vegas life. She sells some photos to one magazine and some photos to another. Ellie slowly begins to build a life in Las Vegas.

One night, while she is well on her way into nothingness, dancing away from reality as she likes to do, she is pulled back suddenly, abruptly, rudely by a familiar face. Dancing a few feet away from her, his arms brushing against another girl, is the CSI boy with the apathetic eyes. She turns away, but he has already seen her and is soon standing before her, not dancing, just looking.

"It's rude to stare, you know." Ellie snaps.

"Sorry. Just…didn't know you were back in town." He is pretty sure she had left. She doesn't respond, but doesn't leave either. "You look good." Ellie knows that has always been code for, 'you don't look like such a slut anymore' or 'you don't look like you're desperate for your next hit anymore'.

"You too, sweetheart." He does look better. "Want to dance?" He nods.

The pulsing of the beat drags them both under. The girl with the sparkles in her hair and the boy with the sparkles in his eyes dance in the flashing, colorful lights. What a pretty pair, people would say, what a pretty pair.

Eventually, the spell ends and they're just two people who don't really know each other standing on a dance floor. Before it can become awkward, Greg takes Ellie's hand in his slightly bigger one and drags her out of the club and onto the brightly lit street. Ellie doesn't protest.

"Let's go for a walk." Greg suggests, finally dropping the warm hand. Ellie shrugs and follows. They walk down a paved road, bars and clubs on either side. Occasionally, muted beats can be heard or breaths of air-conditioning felt as they pass doorways.

"So, where have you been?" Greg's voice is easy and calm; Ellie quite likes it.

"In the little town right between Nowhere and Everywhere."

"Oh, is that anywhere near Here and There?" Ellie almost cracks a smile.

They fall into a comfortable silence, observing their surroundings mildly. A group of teenagers stands giggling and chattering outside a club, no doubt all carrying a fake ID. A girl with a plastic tiara, who is drunkenly crying about "cheating assholes", is dragged down the street by a young man and woman decked out in clubbing attire. A middle-aged man sits on a bench, his head in his hands.

"Man, these streets are lined with the before and afters- dreamers and junkies, winners and deadbeats." Greg muses. His voice is almost bitter and almost fond because that, in essence, is Vegas, and he loves this city as much as he hates it.

"Reminds me of Hollywood." Ellie mumbles, words full of regret, anger, and resentment, only it comes out sounding like every other muttering of a person who has ever been burned by life. Greg nods, but doesn't say anything in reply.

They come to the end of the street and part with quiet goodbyes.

* * *

It isn't long before the pair meets once more. A few weeks after the encounter at the club, Greg runs into a familiar dirty blonde while leaving a watch repair shop.

"Well, well, well. Ellie Brass." She turns to find Greg grinning widely. "Before you ask, I'm not stalking you."

"I didn't know you were allowed out while the sun's still up."

"Not usually," Greg admits, "I just got off work. Hey, I didn't know you were into photography." The criminalist waves vaguely at the camera in her hands.

"New thing. Want your picture taken?" Ellie holds the camera up to her eye. Greg strikes a flamboyant pose and pouts. Ellie laughs, "Very nice. Forget all that law stuff, you could totally be a model."

"Oh, I know. Actually, that was my second career choice if this science thing didn't work out."

Ellie snaps another shot without warning.

Sobering slightly, Ellie lowers her camera. "Hey, Sanders, did you tell my dad that I'm in Vegas?"

"No." Greg looks surprised, as if he had forgotten he even knew her father. He almost had.

"Good. Don't tell him, okay? I'm not ready to talk to him yet." Greg nods quickly. Before the situation grows more uncomfortable Ellie invites Greg out to an early lunch (though it's more of a late dinner for him) at the restaurant across the street.

"Ellie Brass, are you asking me out?"

"You're such a prick." Ellie sighs.

"I'll take that as a yes." Greg beams. "I would _love_ to go on a _date_ with you." Greg begins to saunter down the sidewalk, stopping to hold out his hand for his companion.

Ellie smiles and follows with a mumbled, "Such a prick."

They spend the afternoon talking over sandwiches. Greg makes Ellie laugh four times (he counts).

This first date is closely followed by a second.

After the third, Ellie's replies affirmatively to Greg's, "Want to come over and watch a bunch of crappy 80's movies with me tomorrow?" and that is that; Ellie Brass and Greg Sanders are a couple.

* * *

Ellie is dangerously close to being late for her interview with a local magazine when Greg calls and insists on coming over before she leaves. Ellie accedes. Twenty minutes later Greg shows up at his girlfriend's front door and presents her with a bottle of cherry cola. She looks at him questioningly.

"It's a gift," he explains. "Since it's our one month anniversary and all."

Ellie raises her eyebrows in surprise. "You keep track of that kind of stuff?"

"Well, not usually, but…aren't girls into that kind of thing? Dates and anniversaries and all that?" She can't tell if Greg is speaking honestly or trying to patronize her, so she just takes the bottle and twists off the cap.

"Why the coke?" she asks before taking a sip.

"Cherry coke," he corrects. Looking rather sheepish, he continues, "It's because our first kiss tasted like cherry coke. I kind of associate the drink with you now."

Oh, she thinks. She doesn't know whether to be flattered or creeped out or…damn, he has a really good memory. "That's…really sweet." she admits. Ellie pulls him in for a kiss. It tastes just like their first one.

* * *

Ellie has been in Vegas for four months and has steadily built on her collection of photographs. She has begun to develop a reputation and has contacts now.

The photographer is having her first show and wants Greg to come. As they lie together in her bed, both about to drift off, she abruptly mentions the showcase taking place that weekend. She never asks him to come, but Greg knows she wants him there, so he goes.

Greg doesn't like photographs. When he thinks of photographs, he thinks of pictures of body parts and wounds and crime scenes, which will be marked accordingly and used as evidence.

But Ellie's photos are different; they're full of life. Greg doesn't like photographs, but he likes Ellie and Ellie's photos are part of her.

The show is mildly successful and Ellie doesn't remember being this excited in a long, long time. Looking at all her pictures, different people and places and memories lining white walls, Ellie decides she probably likes the ones from Vegas best.

* * *

It is eleven o'clock in the morning when Ellie and Greg are able to finally meet after not seeing each other for two weeks.

Greg is exhausted, having spent the last two days engrossed in a case. Ellie is exhausted, having spent all night photographing a concert for a rock magazine.

Ellie is at Greg's apartment, a common occurrence as of late. Ellie watches the muted television halfheartedly as she rests her head on Greg's shoulder. Greg lies beside her, his eyes closed and breathing soft. Ellie is pretty sure her companion is asleep until she hears his drowsy voice.

"So, I was thinking, and I realized that I've kinda fallen in love with you." Greg's words are said is a light, matter-of-fact tone. Ellie looks at him incredulously, because, really, what kind of love confession was that? She sighs; it's the Greg kind of love confession.

"Yeah, I love you too." Her words are said more resignedly, though not unhappily. Greg beams and Ellie rolls her eyes, but he can see the smile on her lips.

* * *

Greg buys a cat. She's a brat plain and simple. She hisses when he doesn't bring her food fast enough, digs her claws into his sofa, insists on sleeping in his bed with him, and doesn't really like to be touched. She's Satan's cat, evil incarnated Greg is sure, but he refuses to part with her. She's nasty and bossy and he loves her like he never thought he could love a possessed ball of fur. He names her Bert; she doesn't seem to mind.

The first time Ellie sees Bert she thinks the cat is adorable. Bert purrs and nestles herself into the photographer's lap as Greg watches in astonishment. The quiet scene lasts all of four minutes before Bert decides she is no longer content and leaves Ellie with a set of scratch marks along her arm before scampering away.

"Your cat is bipolar." Ellie huffs.

"Can cats be bipolar?" Greg wonders.

Somewhere along the way Bert stops being Greg's and becomes Greg-and-Ellie's.

Oddly enough, or perhaps suitably, Greg and Ellie's first real fight is over Bert.

For weeks tension builds and builds. Neither says anything, but it is always there, festering. Greg has cancelled one too many dates, and Ellie has flirted with one too many strangers. Unsaid words have nestled themselves into the minds of both and held tongues don't stop the negative feelings from growing like weeds.

It all culminates one afternoon in an explosive fight over Bert the Cat where all the issues lay behind the words.

The storm finally subsides, both voices hoarse from screaming, when the couple realizes what they've been saying. An awkward silence is followed by a snort and soon they're both chuckling at the absurdity of their argument.

No issues are resolved, but perhaps they seem less dire now that the anger has been released.

If either is a little more charitable towards the other for the rest of the week neither mention it.

* * *

Ellie stands in front of the mirror, checking her makeup. Her eyeliner is coming off and her lipstick smudged. Greg steps up behind her, wrapping an arm loosely around her waist. His shirt is untucked; his hair a mess. They both stare into the mirror. Ellie thinks of the pictures in the boxes under her bed. She sometimes muses over the photos of the couples- they look like high school sweethearts, they look like they're about to break up, they look like they're on their first date. Ellie wonders what she and Greg might look like inside a photograph.

Greg doesn't like to have his photo taken, Ellie knows. Ellie doesn't understand this because Greg is absolutely beautiful. Why wouldn't he want to be preserved inside a photograph forever?

Greg always replies with a steady "no" when Ellie asks if she can take his picture. She has always gracefully accepted his reply, but not today. Today, she presses and he can't think of a sufficient excuse.

As he stands in the middle of her living room, shuffling his feet in agitation, it is obvious that Greg is uncomfortable. Even so, Ellie does not back down. Greg deserves to be in her collection of memories. She needs him in that box of photos. Ellie begins snapping pictures, observing the other as he smiles goofily, making faces, and striking poses. It's too fake. Ellie lowers her camera, gazing at the other critically. He's hiding, she thinks.

"Take off your shirt."

The command leaves no room for argument, but Greg tries to anyway. However, Ellie remains steadfast and he eventually gives in.

Greg immediately seems to fold into himself as the cool air hits his upper body. He eyes his discarded shirt longingly, flinching when he hears the telltale click of the camera.

"I don't like this." The almost childlike muttering confirms just how close to the edge Greg is.

Greg has scars. Along his back. Along his arms. He is ashamed of both sets, Ellie knows.

Ellie doesn't say anything. She doesn't know if that hurts Greg or not, but she doesn't want to risk losing the chance to capture everything Greg is emanating right then: vulnerability, strength, genuineness.

When the young man's self-consciousness begins to overwhelm him, he finally interrupts the silence.

"Look, what do you want me to do? Just stand here? What?"

"Yeah, basically." Seeing his distress begin to grow, Ellie relents, "Try to ignore the camera. Just pretend it's me and you."

Greg's hands are clasped tightly on his elbows, his stance rigid and closed. As he absorbs his girlfriend's words he begins to visibly loosen.

Click. Greg's form is still hunched slightly; his eyes focused somewhere past the camera; his scars peaking around sides and forearms.

Click. Both arms hang limply by his sides. His face is turned towards the open window.

Click. Greg has turned partly away from the camera and is bracing himself on the windowsill, arms outstretched. His hair glistens in the sunlight. His eyelids are slightly lowered. His scars- his private marks of accomplishment, survival, past- are openly displayed.

Ellie lowers the camera. That's enough.

Greg turns back to his girlfriend and sends her an unsteady, sincere smile. Ellie doesn't even think about it before she is across the room, her lips planted firmly on Greg's. She warps both of her arms tightly around his bare shoulders and whispers a barely audible, "Thank you".

* * *

Nowhere. That's where Greg finally pulls over, Nowhere. Ellie and Greg sit in the quickly warming car at a seemingly random location in the middle of the desert. Ellie is less than enthused, having certain expectations for this mystery date.

"What? Are you going to kill me?" Greg ignores the sarcasm, grabbing her camera from the backseat and plopping it into her lap.

"Go be artistic." Greg makes a shooing motion with his hands. When she makes no attempt to move, he lets out an over exaggerated noise of exasperation and gets out of the car. He tugs open the passenger door, waiting for her to step out.

"Are you sure you're not going to kill me?" At this point, she really can't think of another reason for the excursion. She knows Greg can be random sometimes, but come _on_.

"Have I ever done anything to make you believe I was in any way homicidal?" Greg continues on before she can whip out a sarcastic reply, "You have a lot of pictures of Nevada, but they're all of city life. Don't you want to capture the full Nevada experience?"

"You sound like some crappy travel agent." Ellie grumbles, but she gets out of the car and starts snapping pictures.

Ellie's preferred subject matter is people, but she has to admit that it is nice to have something different, something that isn't painful, something purely visually pleasing to add to her collection.

The pair spends the afternoon under a pretty blue sky, alternating between comfortable silences and teasing remarks. It's easy and serene and just plain nice. It's in that desert that Ellie first looks at Greg and thinks _home_. She knows she won't be running anymore.

* * *

Greg shuffles out of the locker room and down the hallway, his shift having finally ended. He's focused on making his way to his car when a familiar figure sitting across from reception causes him to freeze. Greg tilts his head to the side as if that would somehow change the image before him.

"Huh." The word escapes his lips and Ellie raises an eyebrow in question.

Greg stands and stares.

She is wearing jeans and an orange tank top, newly darkened locks framing her face. She looks healthy; no more heroine chic. Her cheeks and shoulders are brushed with red, slightly burned- testament to their time spent in the desert the day before.

Greg stands and stares and all he can think is, 'God, she's beautiful'.

The spell is broken by Sophia and Warrick's nearing voices. They know Ellie. They'll recognize her. As far as Greg knows, she hasn't been to see her father yet, hasn't spoken to him for months. She has to know this will get back to him. What is she doing? But then Ellie rises and it doesn't really matter.

"Hey." Before he can reply she's placing a quick kiss on his lips. Greg doesn't know why she came, why she chose today. He stopped trying to understand Ellie a long time ago. He goes with the flow and doesn't pull away from the pressure of her hands on his shoulders, of her lips on his. That's the kind of person Greg is.

"So, want to pick up some Chinese?" Greg asks, taking hold of Ellie's hand as they walk out of the crime lab. Greg is pretty sure Warrick and Sophia are watching them, but he never even considers letting go of the hand in his.

This is how Ellie lets Brass know she is back.

* * *

Ellie goes to the precinct the next day. Brass doesn't look surprised when she steps into his office, she wasn't expecting him to.

"I'm surprised to see you back here." Brass's voice is gruff. 'I'm surprised you haven't died in a gutter,' flashes through Ellie's head, but she promised herself she wouldn't do this, wouldn't try to look for meanings in her father's words that weren't there.

"Thought it was about time I said hello."

"You've been here a while?"

"Ten months." Brass doesn't say anything for a moment.

"Long time. What have you been up to?" Ellie digs her nails into her palm and wills the Bad Thoughts away. She doesn't want to walk away angry this time.

"Waitress on and off. Mostly, I take photos. During events, for magazines, that kinda thing." Brass seems surprised. Whether it is because she's trying to make something of her life or because she answered his question seriously, the photographer doesn't know. A biting voice echoes in the back of her head, and Ellie has to stop herself from adding, "Look dad, no track marks."

"You've changed." It comes out as an almost-question.

Ellie replies with a sarcastic, "What can I say, I found God." She waves vaguely at the crucifixion sitting comfortably on her chest. Then more soberly, "I took some responsibility."

There's an uncomfortable silence following the statement. Brass doesn't want to say the wrong thing (he always does with his daughter). He finally settles on, "So, you're dating Greg Sanders."

That was apparently the right thing to say because Ellie's face lights up with a smile. Brass's heart clenches for a moment because he hasn't seen that smile since she was a little girl.

"Yeah. For almost nine months now." Brass's eyebrows shoot up. And okay, wow, she hadn't even realizes she had been keeping track.

"He's a good guy." The officer's voice is neutral.

"Yeah," Ellie smiles, "He really is."

"Okay." Brass nods like Ellie just answered some question. She probably has, Ellie realizes belatedly.

"Okay." Ellie nods a goodbye and it's over. There isn't a scene. No one is upset. Ellie leaves the precinct and Brass may smile a bit more than is usual for the rest of the day.

* * *

Greg isn't really expecting a confrontation. Some office gossip maybe. Perhaps some stares for a day or two. Possibly a rabid Brass that wishes to dismember him for daring to touch his only daughter. So, when Warrick stops him on his way to the trace lab and pulls him into an empty locker room, he's slightly bewildered.

"So, I saw you with Ellie yesterday." He says it like it's some great confession.

"Yeah. I figured."

Warrick squirms uncomfortably. "Look, man, I know it's none of my business, but do you know what you're doing?"

Greg considers playing dumb, but decides it's not very productive and he wants this conversation over quickly. "Of course not. What male ever knows what they're doing with a girl? Girls are moody. And sometimes scary. And have super memory powers."

"How well do you know Ellie?"

"About as well as she knows me." That doesn't mean anything to Warrick, but to Greg it means everything.

"Look, Ellie has been into some serious stuff. She's dangerous." Greg feels licks of anger begin to scorch his insides.

Warrick has no right to say these things, to pass judgment on his girlfriend, to interfere. Greg doesn't think of such things, of Ellie's past, because Ellie isn't the same person anymore. He doesn't care about who she used to be, it doesn't matter. That's what makes their relationship work. They don't talk about or think about who they used to be because they both know it doesn't matter.

"We both have scars." Greg murmurs in defence, anger, and explanation.

The fading scars on both their arms tell different stories. They could be seen as some sort of emotional link, as a means to forge some sort of bond, but they're not. The marks mean nothing to the relationship. They are not talked about, never thrown at each other in times of anger or sympathetically whispered about in times of love. It is not denial or acceptance, it is irrelevance. The scars have significance for the individual, but not the couple, and that is why their relationship is so great, so suitable.

Warrick can't possibly understand this and Greg isn't going to explain it to him.

"Frankly, Warrick, this is really none of your business." Greg walks away and never once looks back.

* * *

Ellie moves in with Greg gradually and accidentally. There is never the Big Commitment Conversation where they decide as a couple whether moving in would benefit The Relationship.

One day, Ellie opens Greg's closet to grab her sweater when she notices she has kind of invaded his home. Huh. The next time Ellie is at her apartment she realizes she doesn't have much stuff remaining there. Only her furniture, a few appliances, and some expired food sitting in the refrigerator are left. Ellie dumps the food, calls her landlady, and upon returning to Greg's informs him that she will not be going back to her apartment. He really doesn't mind.

* * *

Bert is sick. It first becomes noticeable when she stops hissing at anyone who dares to approach her. By the end of that week, Bert is lying under the bed and refusing to move. Ellie tries to coax her into eating, but Bert just makes pathetic mewling noises, very uncharacteristic of the feisty cat. Greg braves weak claw swipes to pull her out from under the bed and brings her to the vet. The vet sends them home with some antibiotics. Bert is drowsy during the following days, but she begins to eat again and lets out the occasional hiss. Still, Ellie remains fretful. Ellie and Bert have a special bond; Greg thinks it is because they are so alike. (He never dares to tell Ellie that.) Greg thinks Ellie's worrying is sweet. Even so, he doesn't like to see her sad. He decides he must, quite simply, cheer her up.

That night, Greg waits for Ellie to arrive home from her shoot ("Actual models, Greg. I hate it. They're so fake. I'm compromising my artistic integrity for money. Say something, dammit.").

"Greg, I think they might have actually out-bitched me." Ellie grumbles as she walks in.

"Hey, c'mere." Greg pulls her into the living room and turns on a CD.

"Hey, little girl." Greg grins, singing along with the voice blasting from the stereos. "I wanna be your boyfriend." (1)

"Oh my God, what are you doing?" Ellie tries to look disgusted, but a laugh escapes.

"Sweet little girl, I wanna be your boyfriend."

"You're such a freak." Ellie is smiling now, all pretense dropped.

"Do you love me babe?" Greg twirls his girlfriend around. He is about to sing the next line when he's cut off with a kiss.

When Ellie pulls away she looks thoroughly cheered up. "Yes, I love you, you freak. But you can't sing."

"Fair enough."

* * *

Greg doesn't like to bring his work home with him. Sure, science texts might line the walls of the spare room, but that is different. Greg doesn't like to bring home the ghosts and the tears and the echoes of _hurtpaindeath_. He tries to leave it all behind, but sometimes he can't. Those times he will come home with old demons threatening to pull him under, expression pinched, muscles tense. Greg thinks he must close the door differently or bang around or _something_ because Ellie always emerges from another room and looks at him and knows. He asked her once how she always knew. "It's like you're screaming," she explained and wouldn't say anything further.

Sometimes they'll settle on the couch, Ellie practically draped over him like a quilt, and watch old, black-and-white films. Sometimes Ellie will keep her distance, know not to touch. She'll make him a coffee and silently sit across from him at the kitchen table until he decides to go to sleep. Sometimes she'll kiss him and they will end up tangled in their bed. Sometimes she gets it wrong. On those nights, yelling will be followed by sore throats and aching chests and eventually they will end up locked in each other's arms.

Greg doesn't like to bring his work home with him, but when it follows him anyway, he's glad he has Ellie to make it better.

* * *

Greg and Ellie have been dating for a year. One full year. When Greg realizes this he sits down and spends a good chunk of the morning thinking about it. One year of sarcastic conversations and bizarre arguments. One year of trying to understand Ellie and failing miserably. Repeatedly. One year of Ellie's photographs lining the floors and walls of her apartment and later his and now theirs. One year of seeing Ellie's pretty face as often as he could and thinking about it the rest of the time. After one year Greg has even taken to sharing his precious coffee with Ellie.

By the time Ellie wakes up he has come to a conclusion. "This," Greg searches for the term, "this is penguin love."

Ellie considers being insulted, but settles on amused. "Penguin love?"

"Fairytale princess love." Greg amends.

"Oh, that's so much better."

"My point," Greg glares, "is that we share an epic love. _Epic_."

"Only you could make it sound like a threat. You charmer, you."

"You're making this really difficult for me." Greg sighs. "I just wanted to let you know that I have decided what we have is true love and I, therefore, cannot let you escape."

"Again with the threats." Ellie laughs, which makes Greg smile like it always does. "And what do you mean you won't let me escape?"

"Ah, patience, my dear. Patience."

A week later, Greg takes the night off and brings Ellie to a swanky restaurant for dinner. After exhausting his supply of stories concerning the infamous and the famous of Old Vegas who had attended the restaurant, Greg grows serious.

"So, as you've probably already realized, I can be overly enthusiastic sometimes, I have some questionable hobbies, I sometimes see the lab more than you, I have fits of pseudo-depression, and I have been called, and I quote, 'weird'. But I love you. A lot."

And Ellie is kind of holding her breath. She might have an idea where this is going and she is kind of inexplicably frozen. Fuck. Then Greg pulls out a tiny, ring-sized box. Logically, she knows what tiny boxes usually mean (she is completely capable of making connections, thank you very much). But for some it's just not processing. This is Greg. And Ellie. Ellie and Greg in all their shining fucked-upedness. He loves her; she knows he does, but she didn't think of this. This is for normal people. This is for people who get fairytale endings.

"I figured I'd go the traditional route- y'know, snazzy restaurant, expensive wine, et cetera. I considered the one knee thing, but I have crappy luck and am likely to trip a waiter, sending him flying into that nice elderly couple a few tables away. So, what I'm trying to say is, will you say yes to being stuck with me for a prolonged period of time? And by prolonged I mean forever and a day."

There is a stretch of silence that prompts Greg to begin absently drumming his fingers on the tabletop. At some point during his little speech (Greg will later insist that it was not rehearsed in the slightest despite Ellie's doubt) Greg had opened the tiny box to reveal a classy ring of white gold sprinkled with small diamonds. It caught the light and sparkled just like Ellie's eyes had in the lights of the club where they first met up after her return.

Ellie thinks of the man in Illinois, of Cinderella, of childhood dreams wrought from princesses and Happily Ever After's. Ellie looks at Greg in his nice suit (because her boy has fashion sense) with his nice smile and thinks of Prince Charming.

"Of course, you freak." Ellie says weakly. Then she grins and it's Greg's turn to freeze because she is so, so beautiful. Ellie's hand slides across the table and clasps Greg's. Greg smiles wide, wide, wide.

"Told you I wouldn't let you escape."

"Yeah, yeah. Just gimme my ring."

The next day, Greg arranges to have the following week off. At some point during the week a dress mysteriously appears in the closet. Greg flails around for a while, a moment or two of panic hitting him suddenly, before calling Pete. He was Pete's best man and Pete's best friend and Pete is married, so he has to know.

"Hey, Greg. How are you?"

"I don't know what to wear."

Pete wrangles the story out of Greg of what exactly is going on. He then proceeds to direct Greg to rent a tux "or at the very least a nice suit. Man, come _on_." Once Greg reminds himself that yes, he actually can pick out his own clothes and possesses some level of fashion awareness ("I can totally accessorize, dude. Totally.") he calms enough to realize that someone else knows. Someone else knows that Greg Sanders has found The Girl and somehow tricked her into marrying him. He is engaged. Officially. It's awesome. Pete is a good friend and only laughs warmly when Greg begins to gush shamelessly.

The week flies by and soon Greg and Ellie fly out to San Gabriel because that's where Greg is from, it remains home even after Vegas has become home.

Ellie wants to get married in a Church.

"I know you're not Catholic, but--" Ellie says with stilted words and stops. She doesn't say, "it would mean a lot to me."

"Okay." He agrees easily.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Greg googles churches in the area and is lucky enough to find one that he can book on such short notice.

Ellie doesn't call her script-writer friend from Illinois or her coworker friend from Colorado or her mother. Greg doesn't call Peter or Archie or his parents. They don't invite anyone to the wedding because this is something just for them. This is only theirs.

Greg and Ellie get married in a small church surrounded by sunbeams colored by stained glass. Ellie wears a dress that is tinged blue and carries a small bouquet of blue and violet forget-me-nots. Greg smiles the whole time- while Ellie walks down the isle, during the priest's words, even through the kiss.

The couple rents a hotel room and spends the week lounging and wandering around the city. Ellie laughs constantly and Greg doesn't mind having his picture taken over and over.

On their last day in San Gabriel, they go to visit Greg's parents. They're welcoming and polite and then Greg's father notices the rings.

"When was this?" his father asks, staring at the rings. His mother frowns when she realizes she wasn't invited to her baby's wedding.

"Just this week." Greg shifts uncomfortably. "It wasn't—we didn't invite anyone."

Greg's mother frowns some more before sighing deeply and standing. "I'm going to bake a cake."

Ellie squeezes Greg's hand. She doesn't know why, but she wants his parents to like her. She doesn't want their marriage to cause a rift.

"No. No, hey. It's fine. She bakes cakes. It's just what she does. If it were lemon bars, we would be screwed." Greg soothes. His father nods sagely.

Greg's mother spends the visit questioning (interrogating, the CSI insists) the couple and trying to push more cake at Ellie.

As they're leaving, Greg's mother grabs Ellie into a hug and whispers so only she can hear, "Take care of my baby."

"I will," Ellie promises with her eyes.

The Monday they get back, Greg pulls a Warrick and comes into work wearing a wedding ring. Ellie had called her mother and Brass the night before. Greg is kind of waiting for a confrontation of some sort and tries not to dwell on the fact that Brass could very easily take him in a fight.

In the end, Brass doesn't confront him and the most Greg has to deal with are some raised eyebrows and shocked congratulations.

* * *

Greg is still jagged around the edges. He has fits of self-destruction that are continually lessening. Sometimes he will dream of dead eyes and the slick feel of blood on his hands.

Ellie still has moments where she hates her father. She still protects herself with a biting tongue and, in times of weakness, wishes for the freedom brought by the numbness spreading vein by vein. When Greg looks into her eyes, at times he will see the emotions she has learnt to reign in. Ellie had a lot of anger boiling under the surface for a long time. Greg remembers from before she left that last time. She was still angry and confused and hurt, hurt, hurt. Then she left and she mellowed out and found answers. Now, what remains is mostly bitterness, which isn't nearly as volatile.

Greg knows everyone at the lab wonders how he ended up with Ellie. He knows most of his fellow CSIs still think he is being played. He also knows that as time passes they're going to stop worrying, they're going to remember the world isn't always as cynical as their job makes it seem.

Greg watches Ellie as she tinkers with her camera and changes angles, trying to achieve the perfect shot of the sunrise.

"I thought you didn't like taking pictures of scenery."

"I'm not. I'm taking a picture of the moment."

"Aw, you're such a softie underneath that hardcore exterior. Capturing the emotion, the passion, the love."

"Yes," Ellie intones sarcastically, "I'm capturing our love on camera."

"Epic love," Greg reminds. "Epic."

"You're such a freak." Smile. Click.

The End.

Author's Note: (1) Song is "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" by The Ramones.


End file.
